“Having trouble?” he murmurs against my throat, and I can feel the bastard smiling.
“Ugh, your shirt has too many buttons.” I finally get the last one free and shove the fabric off his shoulders like it’s personally offended me, and he lets go of me just long enough to shake it off his arms.
Then his chest is bare and warm under my palms and every coherent thought I had about why this is a terrible idea evaporates like water on a hot pan.
I run my hands down over him slowly, greedily, like I can’t get enough, like if I’m not touching him I might actually lose my mind. My palms map the terrain of his chest, the hard swell of his pecs, the ridges of his abs contracting under my fingers.
My hands travel from his chest around to his back, feeling the thick cords of muscle shift under his skin, then back around to his front and down to his belt. I unbuckle it and when I pop the button and drag the zipper down, he thrusts forward against my hand involuntarily, his hips chasing the contact before his brain can overrule them.
Hah.The man who controls everything can’t seem to control that.
The V of muscle leading down from his hips is hard as stone under my fingertips, and based on the feeling through the thin fabric of his boxers, it’s not the only thing that’s hard. I press my palm against his cock through the cotton and feel him twitch against my hand, thick and straining, and my mouth actually waters.
“See something you like?” He says it like a challenge, but his voice has dropped half an octave.
“I can work with it.” I smile sweetly, then wrap my fingers around the outline of him through his boxers and squeeze, slow and deliberate, running my hand up and down.
“Fuck.” His hands slam down on the table on either side of my hips, his head dropping forward, a breath punching out of him that sounds like it was ripped from somewhere deep. “You’re going to pay for that, Bennett.”
“Promises, promises.” I squeeze again, slower this time, savoring the way his cock pulses against my palm, the way his whole body goes taut like a wire about to snap. “We both know who always wins between us, Midnight. I’m not too worried.”
His eyes flash with a glint that’s sharp and dangerous, and his hand shoots under my dress and shoves my thong to the side and his fingers are inside me before I can draw my next breath, two of them buried deep while his thumb finds my clit and presses down with devastating accuracy.
My whole body jolts and the moan that tears out of me is completely involuntary, raw and loud, and my hand on his cock goes slack because I can’t think about anything except what his fingers are doing.
I grab his shoulder to steady myself, my hips already rocking against his hand, and he curls his fingers against my front wall and my back lifts off the table. The smug look on his face tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“What was that about always winning?” he asks, his voice surprisingly calm for a man whose fingers are knuckle-deep inside me.
“You’re cheating,” I gasp, trying to recover my grip on his cock, but he curls his fingers again and my hand just squeezes his shoulder harder instead, nails digging into the muscle. “That was a dirty move.”
“I fight dirty. You know this about me.” He pumps his fingers slowly, rubbing them against that spot on every stroke, and his thumb keeps up that relentless circling pressure on my clit that has my thighs trembling against his hips.
I force myself to focus through the haze of what his hand is doing and wrap my fingers back around his cock, shoving his boxers down far enough to free him properly. The feel of him in my hand, hot skin and rigid length, grounds me enough to match his rhythm. I stroke him firmly, twisting at the head, and his composure cracks just enough that his fingers stutter inside me.
There. Even.
We’re locked in this ridiculous standoff, his fingers working me while I work his cock, both of us breathing hard and watching each other’s faces for any sign of surrender. It’s absurd. It’s the mostusthing that has ever happened, the most Brooke-and-Dominic moment imaginable, turning sex into a competition, and I’d laugh if I could get enough air into my lungs.
“This is a stupid game,” I manage, my voice unsteady because his thumb just found a new angle on my clit that’s making my vision go soft at the edges.
“You started it.” He leans in and catches my earlobe between his teeth, tugging gently, and the combination of his mouth and his fingers sends a shudder rolling through me. “You could always forfeit.”
“I have literally never forfeited anything in my life.” I tighten my grip on his cock and stroke faster, more deliberately, and I’m rewarded with a groan. “And I’m not starting with you.”
His free hand grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into a kiss that’s messy and deep, and I moan into his mouth because his fingers are still pumping and his thumb is still circling and I can feel my orgasm building at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with every stroke. The wet sounds his fingers make inside me fill the quiet apartment, and each one sends a fresh wave of heat through my core.
I pull his hand away from me and he makes a questioning sound against my lips. I yank my underwear down my legs,kicking them off my ankle, and grab his wrist and put his hand right back between my thighs.
“Impatient,” he observes against my mouth.
“Practical. You have a track record, and that lace cost more than your gym membership.”
His fingers slide back inside me, picking up exactly where they left off, and I groan. But I don’t want to come on his fingers, not yet. I want all of him.
I pull his hand away and wrap my fingers around his cock instead, stroking him once, twice, spreading my wetness along his length, and his forehead drops against mine, his breathing ragged against my lips.
It’s been just a few days since he fucked me on that gym floor and my body has been craving him ever since, like one taste of him rewired something fundamental in my nervous system and now nothing else will do. That’s all it took to become completely addicted to a man I’m supposed to hate.
